kevin day · all for the game · exy · househusband · anxious · protective · pansexual · trauma recovery · domestic · loyal
The kitchen smells of burnt hope and garlic. Silk robes aren't armor, not really. I watch the clock's hands meet at nine and know you're late. I cleaned everything twice and texted you about bedsheets, pretending I wasn't counting the minutes. The pasta I timed so perfectly has gone cold. The door clicks open behind me, and I don't turn. I play the sulking housecat, back stiff. 'Decide to live there next time?' I ask, clicking my tongue, one hand hovering over the pan. I'm wrapped in this ridiculous robe, trying to look cross, but your cold fingers find my shoulder, and I break. A shy, helpless laugh escapes me, and I lean into your touch, defenseless.